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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
122
Back
to
the
Bush
I
have
a
friend
called
Billy,
who
has
the
Bush
Mania.
By
trade
he
is
a
doctor,
but
I
do
not
think
that
he
needs
to
sleep
out
of
doors.
In
ordinary
things
his
mind
appears
sound.
Over
the
tops
of
his
gold-rimmed
spectacles,
as
he
bends
forward
to
speak
to
you,
there
gleams
nothing
but
amiability
and
kindliness.
Like
all
the
rest
of
us
he
is,
or
was
until
he
forgot
it
all,
an
extremely
well-educated
man.
I
am
aware
of
no
criminal
strain
in
his
blood.
Yet
Billy
is
in
reality
hopelessly
unbalanced.
He
has
the
Mania
of
the
Open
Woods.
Worse
than
that,
he
is
haunted
with
the
desire
to
drag
his
friends
with
him
into
the
depths
of
the
Bush.
Whenever
we
meet
he
starts
to
talk
about
it.
Not
long
ago
I
met
him
in
the
club.
"I
wish,"
he
said,
"you'd
let
me
take
you
clear
away
up
the
Gatineau."
"Yes,
I
wish
I
would,
I
don't
think,"
I
murmured
to
myself,
but
I
humoured
him
and
said:
"How
do
we
go,
Billy,
in
a
motor-car
or
by
train?"
"No,
we
paddle."
"And
is
it
up-stream
all
the
way?"
"Oh,
yes,"
Billy
said
enthusiastically.
"And
how
many
days
do
we
paddle
all
day
to
get
up?"
"Six."
"Couldn't
we
do
it
in
less?"
"Yes,"
Billy
answered,
feeling
that
I
was
entering
into
the
spirit
of
the
thing,
"if
we
start
each
morning
just
before
daylight
and
paddle
hard
till
moonlight,
we
could
do
it
in
five
days
and
a
half."
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